


Invenit

by LeTempest



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Backstory, Canon Gay Relationship, Canon Queer Character of Color, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 03:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeTempest/pseuds/LeTempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barca has always had a fondness for delicate things</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Spartacus or any of the characters. If I did, the whole thing would be sunshine and rainbows and no one would ever die ever.

Barca did not notice the boy at first, just another face too young, and a body to soft for this place. 

The new ludus slave, Pietros, Doctore had called him, was another backhanded gift from the fuck, Selonius, and not given much worth in the eyes of the gladiators themselves. The youth, for his part, seemed smart enough to stay quiet and out from under foot. He seemed to want his presence ignored. Barca, among the other’s was happy to oblige. At first.

His awareness of the boy came in slow degrees. It started with simple things, an accidental glance or brush of the skin in passing. The boy had eyes like nothing Barca had seen in a very long time. They were large and dark, brimming with honesty and gentle heart. The reminded him to much of a life long lost and made his heart ache for a home had had tried his best to forget. 

Yet, to his own fury, he could not draw his eye away from the young man after that. The thoughts and feelings the boy awoke made him ache fiercely, but he unwantedly welcomed it; it made him feel alive for the first time in a very long time. 

He began to notice other things about the boy as well, the more he gazed at him. He was of a fine form, not so delicate as first expected. He was broad of shoulder and long of leg, with fine, slender muscle under his dark skin. His hands were efficient, and though not a gladiators hands, seemed well used to practical handling of weapons. He did not cower as many of the ludus slaves did at first; he simply kept himself out of their path, ever watching or listening for command. He was most often silent but when he spoke, Barca found the young voice pleasant to the ear. 

It was Crixus who first noticed his attentions.

“It has been a long time since I have seen such fire in your eyes,” the Gaul said casually, as they sat to eat, “in the days before I was of the brotherhood.”

Barca frowned, turning back to his slop. He’d lost many lovers in his life, Auctus was but one. Years dulled the ache but never fully relieved it. 

“Your eyes deceive you,” he muttered.

Crixus shrugged. He was a good man, and a good friend. He knew when his council was unwanted. There was companionable silence between them for a time. 

“You haven’t taken a steady lover in a long time,” Crixus mentioned, as if in passing. But unfinished phrase hung heavy in the air. Not since Auctus, and he has been dead nearly two years. 

“Whores and house slaves fill the gap well enough,” he shrugged, side-eyeing the new recruits. Pietros hurried between them and Barca forced himself to look away.

“Still,” Crixus poised, lifting his gaze to the young Egyptian, “They are not beck and call; a fact that every man, even champion, mourns.”

“What makes you so sure he would have me?”

Crixus gave a gruff laugh.

“You are gladiator of great renown, the Beast of Carthage, second only to me in glories won. You are rich of coin and influence. Dominus trusts you and leaves the ludus with you as his guard. That boy is but a slab of meat in this place, and he knows it. Your gaze is not the only one that lingers upon him. And the likes of Gnieus and the others will not be swayed in attempt for the boy by the idea of whether he would have him. Offer him your protection in kind for his services, and the boy will be in your bed this very night, if he has an ounce of fucking sense.”

Barca turned the words over in his head. Crixus spoke truth, there were few hear who would have hesitated to force themselves on one so young and handsome, if their needs arouse. Barca had never had a taste for such things. He’d seen rape, when they the Roman’s came. He’d seen women slit their own throats, and those of their children, to escape such fate. 

 

“I shall think on your words,” he relented, before Doctore called them back to training.


	2. The Bird

Though the thought of approaching the boy crossed his mind often, Barca would have seen it done in private, something that was rare in the ludus. He would not have the others hear him offering such protection, he had been here many years and he knew the tempers of these men well. Hearing such declaration would only spur some to offer the same, and Barca did not want to compete for the boy’s loyalties.

But the god’s saw fit to grant him opportunity.

He had not expected the boy to approach him. In fact, it almost startled him. 

He had been on his way back to his cell, after accompanying Dominus to town. It was late and the halls were quiet. He heard the soft footsteps behind him, clear as day, though it was obvious their owner was trying to be silent.

He turned on his pursuer, grabbing a slim arm and twisting it viciously, slamming the slight body into the opposite wall. The boy cried out in shock, frozen under his hands. Even in the near dark, Barca could see the mop of dark curls, and feel the fine muscles under the skin. This was no gladiator, no one who could do him harm. He let go carefully, stepping away. The youth turned, rubbing at the abused limb.

“You should know better than to sneak up on gladiators, boy,” Barca chide him

“Apologies,” he stammered, “I was not trying to sneak. I simply did not want to wake the others.”

“Nor should you. The hour is late and training starts early. So why does a ludus slave find himself so far from his own bed?”

“I-I was looking for you.” The boy, Pietros, admitted.

Barca raised an eyebrow. This night would prove fortuitous indeed.

“You are the one who tends the birds?”

“I am.”

“Then I have something I must show you,” Pietros said, “follow me.”

Barca went willingly, unable to hold the smile from his lips. Perhaps Crixus had been right. The boy wasn’t’ stupid, he saw the value of taking such a man as Barca to his thighs. He stepped aside, letting Pietros lead the way.

Pietros’ cell was a small affair, with barely room for a bed and shelf. Barca had to lean down to enter. But it was his alone, a courtesy not often afforded to gladiators themselves. Pietros glanced around carefully before turning his back on Barca.

“I know I should not ask,” he said, reaching into a small box near the pallet, “But I could think of no one else to turn to”

Barca’s blood sang. He’d been too long without someone to warm his bed each night, especially one as lovely as young Pietros. 

But as he turned back to face Barca, the gladiator’s face fell. Cradled in the boy’s hands was a small falcon, it’s beak tie together with a small length of twine.

“I found it this morning, before the others went into the yard to train. I think it’s wing is broken, but I don’t know. Then I remembered that you keep the birds, and I thought perhaps you would be able to help it.”

Indignation boiled up in the gladiators chest. The boy was not offering himself, but seeking aid for a dying animal. To so misunderstand intent, it made Barca feel a bumbling half wit of a boy again. He wanted to be angry, to shake Pietros, to snarl at him, to frighten him. He wanted the boy to pay for the embarrassment he’d made the gladiator feel.

But those dark, gentle eyes, pleading, caught Barca’s gaze and the anger fizzled out. He heaved a heavy sigh and took the bird from the boy’s hands.

“I did not wish the others to know,” Pietros said, watching with concern as the bird fought Barca’s touch. Wise creature. “The men in Selonius’ ludus would have killed the beast for fun, because it was so injured. They enjoy that, tearing apart things that they perceive as weaker.”

“You seem to know first hand,” Barca said, though his sights remained on the bird. The creature’s wing was shattered at the shoulder. If it lived, it would never fly again, and likely starve.

Pietros shrugged at the comment.

“A ludus slave sees much,” he said, picking at a loose thread in his already thin blanket, “how fairs the bird?”

Barca shook his head.

“This won’t heal cleanly. The creature will be crippled, and it would take constant, carful hand just be fed. If it survives the wound at all,” he relented, stroking the creature’s tawny feathers. It was a shame, the bird was quite beautiful, “ It would be better to put it down. To rob a bird of flight too cruel a fate.”

Pietros nodded, his expression almost pained. That struck Barca. It was only a bird, a wild bird no less. It held no meaning or loyalty, like Auctus’ birds did to Barca. And yet it’s life seemed to mean something to the boy, as if so small a life still held value in his eyes. Barca wondered if there were ever a time he had felt like that. Perhaps once, a long time ago.

“I would see it done, for it is the kinder path. But I know not how, a least, not in a way that would be quick and painless,” the youth confessed.

Barca sighed, taking the creature’s slender neck in one hand and giving it a quick, violent twist. The bird gave a short squawk, as the bones cracked, and then went limp in his hands. 

“It is done,” he sighed, tossing the body back to the young man, “See it over the cliff in the morning. I doubt there is enough meat on it to be fit for eating.”

The gladiator turned to leave, but a hand on his arm stilled him.

“Thank you,” the boy said and once more Barca found himself lost in the dark sea of those eyes. He reached out a hand of his own, to touch the youth’s cheek. Pietros stiffened but did not pull away.

“You would do well to learn lesson from that bird,” Barca warned, his voice quiet, “This is not a place for the weak, they are too easily destroyed within these walls.”

Dark brows furrowed and Pietos brushed the hand away.

“You think me weak?” 

Barca shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest as if the action had not inflamed him with indignation. 

“I think you young and unbroken. Something in rare supply around here, something that many in this ludus would see taken for themselves. Regardless of your feelings in the matter.”

The young Egyptian scowled.

“What of you?” the boy spat venomously. It was the first hint of anger Barca had yet to see the young man display.

“I have a fondness for delicate things. I would offer protection from such unsavory advances.”

“All for the price of my flesh,” Pietros countered.

Barca pushed away from the wall, reaching for the boy again. Pietros backed away. Barca did not pursue, but the reaching hand closed into a fist, dropping to his side. 

“I am not unkind, and I take no pleasure in violence, not in my bed anyway. I would see you to pleasure, and my touch would keep you from the hands of others. I am of rank in the ludus, behind only Crixus. No one would dare to touch what is seen as mine.”

“And if such offer were denied? Would you press issue?”

Barca scowled. 

“I am no rapist.”

“Then see yourself to other company. I am well aware of the nature of gladiators. I can take care of myself.”

Even backed against the wall, their was a fire in the boy’s eyes, one that nearly covered the fear Barca saw their. They both knew Pietros’ words were little better than a lie. But it seemed he would not be swayed and Barca did not trust his patience enough to try. With a snarl, he turned, storming out of the small room. If the boy was too stupid to see himself protected, on his own head be it.


End file.
